One More Miracle
by Emily Anderson
Summary: John is taking Sherlock's death badly. He knows Sherlock is gone but has a hope that somehow he's still alive. But when Lestrade stumbles upon an interesting fact, he can't help but tell John.


Chapter One: Lockdown At 221B Baker Street

The days blurred together for John after that day. He had memorized that day; every event was still vivid in his mind. He constantly replayed that phone call in his head. John wished he could have said something, anything to have convinced Sherlock not to step off that ledge. He knew Sherlock would do anything to prove how clever he was but John never thought he'd take his own life to do so. John didn't understand why Sherlock would do that. Sherlock didn't think of anyone but himself; John didn't know why he tried to convince himself otherwise. Thinking about that phone call always brought a lump in his throat, hollowness in his chest, and a heavy feeling in his stomach.

John had returned to his therapist, he had to. John didn't know how to deal with his feelings. He was either angry at Sherlock or depressed because nothing happened to him anymore. His therapist had told him to say whatever he wanted to say to Sherlock. His therapist said he was holding back his emotions, which was true. He needed to tell Sherlock everything he never got a chance to say. John had visited Sherlock's grave a hundred times. Each time, he would beg and plead for Sherlock not to be dead. John needed one last miracle from Sherlock. Sometimes, John would yell at Sherlock's grave, screaming at him for being so selfish to take his life and leave John alone. John would never admit it but Sherlock was more than his best friend. He had always felt something else between them, an unspoken feeling neither of them would admit existed.

The flat never changed. John could never move any of Sherlock's possessions. He had kept it all in its place. John never moved any of Sherlock's experiment equipment from the table; he would just make room somewhere else. He hardly ever had guests over, expect Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson would make him tea sometimes. Mycroft came over every few weeks, just to make sure John was alright and poke at everything John did. It was like suddenly John was Sherlock to Mycroft, as if John had just taken the place of Sherlock in Mycroft's mind. Even with John's protests, Mycroft paid all the bills for him, saying that it was the least he could do. Mycroft brought Lestrade with him on some occasions. Lestrade was always compassionate towards John when he visited. John would be friendly and act like he was alright whenever anyone visited but he was broken on the inside. He never entered Sherlock's room; the door was always closed and locked. He didn't want to forget Sherlock. He wanted to keep that small piece of Sherlock he had left safe.

John was back to where he started, nothing exciting happening to him. He just sat around the flat all day, staring at the walls, wishing for anything to happen. His limp and tremor quickly returned, only a few days after Sherlock was gone. John knows Sherlock wasn't a fake, he knows because of the limp. Sherlock knew that it was psychosomatic and he could be cured of it. His limp reminded him daily that Sherlock was real. Sherlock's deductions about him and Harry were also real, not even Sherlock could convince him that he'd found it out online. For some reason, Sherlock wanted John to believe that he'd lied that whole time but he couldn't figure out why.

John was cuddled up with the union jack pillow and a blanket on the couch, watching a bad show on telly. John had the door locked and refused to answer. John had even covered all the windows. Mrs. Hudson had given up trying to convince him to leave the flat. She made sure he was okay daily though. His therapist had called a few times but he just let it ring off the hook. John just wanted to be alone.

After a week had passed, Mrs. Hudson was starting to get worried; John was still locked up in the flat. John was making tea for himself in the kitchen when Mycroft burst through the door. Mycroft scanned the flat until he found John. John tried to avoid Mycroft's gaze but it didn't work. Although John was never intimidated by Mycroft, he hated that look Mycroft gave him when he was being stupid. It was the worst possible look in the world; John didn't know why it bothered him so much. Maybe it was because Harry used to give him a look that was very similar to Mycroft's.

"God you look terrible. You have got to get yourself together, John." Mycroft said with a hardened tone.

"I'm not having a great time right now, Mycroft." John murmured while he trying to appear focused in making his tea.

"I know you're not taking this very well but locking yourself up in this flat isn't going to make it better. Go get yourself cleaned up while I attempt to tidy the flat up a bit and then we'll talk."

"Mycroft, you can't just come in here and boss me around. I can do what I want."

"I'm trying to help you. Don't fight me on this."

John was about to fight back but backed down. He headed to the bathroom to take a shower; he decided to accept Mycroft's help with dealing with Sherlock's death. John undressed and slipped into the shower. He scrubbed his body clean while the water streamed down his face. The warmth of the shower made John feel a bit better, he wasn't as sore as before. John shaved the short beard off his face while Mycroft tidied around the flat, cleaning up the mess that had taken over the kitchen. Mycroft couldn't believe he was cleaning up John's flat, he didn't even clean his own flat, he paid someone to do it; not that he was home enough to make much of a mess. He texted Lestrade that he should come over to help him. Lestrade replied that he'd be over in half an hour once he was finished at the Yard.

Mycroft was folding a blanket when John walked into the living room. He was wearing real clothes, not pajamas and smelled of soap. Mycroft gave John a half smile before setting the blanket on the chair beside him. John sat on the couch and fiddled with his thumbs. Mycroft quickly finished what he was doing and joined John on the couch. Both of them just sat there for awhile, avoiding speaking and what needed to be said.

"I am sorry, John. I know he meant a lot to you."

"And he didn't mean a lot to you? You don't seem to be very upset that your brother is dead. He's gone, Mycroft. He's not coming back. You can't just fill that void with me. Actually, you don't even seem to want to do that. You don't seem like you care at all. You can't go pay my bills and look out for me like you did for him. He was your brother, for Christ sakes. You grew up together, at least try and act like you're upset." John yelled.

"Don't take your anger out on me. I am upset but I'm actually dealing with it, not bottling it up like you. It seems like you're trying to convince yourself that he's gone. You can't keep pretending he's here or he'll show up. You have to move some of his stuff out, try and start over again. I can give you a job that will let you be both a doctor and a detective, just like how you were with Sherlock because you clearly enjoyed it. But enough is enough, no more locking yourself up in your flat or sitting around all day doing nothing," Mycroft replied calmly.

"I know he's gone. Trust me, I know. Everywhere I look I notice that he's not here anymore. You know, I used to hate how he would take my things and use them whenever he pleased. Now I miss that, I wish he could take my things without asking. And his experiments, like the eyes in the microwave or the fingers in the fridge; before it drove me up the wall and now that he's gone, it doesn't seem like a big deal anymore. I miss him, Mycroft. I miss having someone around. I miss doing crazy things. I miss running through the streets of London during the middle of the night to catch criminals," John continued, still yelling at Mycroft.

"I know, John. But locking yourself up in this flat isn't going to bring him back or changing anything. You have to move on like Sherlock would want you to. He would never want you to mope around all the time."

"I just..." John was cut off by the front door swinging open and Lestrade standing at the doorway.

"Is it safe to come in?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, you can come in," Mycroft said as he went to greet Lestrade. Lestrade intertwined his fingers with Mycroft's as they shared a sweet kiss. John was instantly jealous when he saw the kiss, he'll never get a chance to kiss Sherlock, and he'll never get a chance to have a relationship with him. John would marry Sherlock if he had been given the opportunity, Sherlock made him feel complete. Sherlock was his longest lasting relationship, he'd never had a connection with any woman he'd dated like he had with Sherlock, and he was never with a woman for more than a few weeks before the relationship fizzled out.

"How are you holding up, John? Any better than last week?" Lestrade asked as he and Mycroft sat next to each other on the couch. Lestrade was practically sitting on Mycroft's lap.

"I'm alright, thanks to Mycroft." John gave Lestrade a half smile to reassure him though John was sure that Lestrade had seen right through it.

"I'm glad. You know I'm always here if you need anything," Lestrade said before turning his attention to Mycroft for a moment. "Thank you for looking after him, My," Lestrade whispered loud enough for only Mycroft to hear.

"I know but I just need time to... adjust." Adjust to living half a life since Sherlock's not here, John thought to himself.

"Alright well I'll come by every few days. Maybe I can get your help on a few cases when you're up for it." Lestrade suggested.

Lestrade really did care about John. John had made Sherlock into a great man. John and him were very much alike, both of them being more silence, both of their hands full with dealing with a Holmes brother. Lestrade knew John was lying through his teeth, he wasn't okay, he was barely holding on but Lestrade had to believe that John would be okay, that somehow John would make it through losing Sherlock. He felt guilty that he could kiss Mycroft and go out on dates with Mycroft when John had to sit at home, alone. He knows how he'd feel if he lost Mycroft. Mycroft and he had started going out during Sherlock's and John's second case, The Blind Banker, as John called it. They had kept it a secret, knowing that everyone would react badly. Although Sherlock quickly deduced it, he decided to keep the information to himself. John had only found out about them recently.

"I'm sure I could help with a few. Just don't expect me to solve them in five seconds like Sherlock used to do." John's voice rang on used to. He was having a hard time always using past tense when referring to Sherlock, like suddenly Sherlock was only the past and that he wouldn't live on in John's life.

"Well I'm kind of tired. You two should get out of here; go enjoy yourselves together while you still have each other. I don't want you wasting your whole day on me." John said, half wanting to be alone and half not wanting to have to suffer seeing them so happy together when he was so miserable.

"Are you sure? We can stay a bit longer. Maybe we could all go for some dinner." Lestrade sounded concerned.

"Seriously, go! How about dinner, tomorrow? We can all meet here and find a place to eat." John suggested.

"Oh alright. Does that sound good to you, Mycroft?" Lestrade asked Mycroft.

"That's fine. How about at six-thirty? I shouldn't be busy then."

"Alright." Both John and Lestrade said in unison.

Lestrade and Mycroft said their goodbye's and made sure John wasn't going to lock himself in the flat again before they were go the door. John watched through the window as they walk down the street together, holding hands and Lestrade giving Mycroft quick kisses when he could. John was envious. He decided to stop torturing himself and stepped away from the window. He hugged the pillow closest to him while he sobbed. John cried out as he sobbed, pleading Sherlock to be alive when if he was gone from John's life forever, he wanted to know that Sherlock was okay. The tears streamed down his face.


End file.
